Now These Changes Have Come to Stay
by ModernDayRenaissanceWoman
Summary: Victor finds out the Russians do not tolerate homosexuality and have been punishing him for his "threatening lifestyle". In order to protect himself, he completely changes his image, starting with his most iconic feature: his hair.


Victor stepped off the podium with his famous, easy smile on his face, and a gold medal swinging around his neck. All around him fans cheered and threw flowers as he exited the rink, only to be ambushed by a pack of cameramen and reporters anxious to speak to the prodigy himself. The reporters swarmed him with questions.

"Victor, how does it feel winning gold once again?"

"Victor, the media refers to you as 'the best figure skater of all time', how do you feel about that?"

"Victor, was winning gold in your home country of Russia different than winning gold in other places?"

"This was your most narrow victory yet, how do you plan to surprise your audience in future competitions?"

"What can we expect from you next season?"

The stream of questions never seemed to cease, and Victor did his best to keep up, answering with his detached, easy going charm. He spoke about how much he loved to skate, how he couldn't have been more proud to win gold in his country, how the competition was getting stronger and the other skaters were keeping him on his toes. He told the reporters that if he told them how he was planning to surprise his audience, it wouldn't be a surprise and how he wasn't sure what next season would hold, but he knew it would be amazing. Finally, when it seemed like the questioning would go on forever, Yakov walked over to rescue him.

"No more questions. Victor must rest now. He is very tired from his performance and his latest victory. Good night."

With that he guided Victor down the hall and turned into an empty locker room. Victor looked around in confusion.

"Yakov, what are we doing here? I need to get ready for the banquet tonight," he protested, looking at his coach.

Meanwhile, Yakov surveyed the room, making sure it was truly empty, that there was no one to overhear their conversation. He turned back to his skater.

"Victor, we need to talk."

"Talk? Talk about what?" Victor questioned. He couldn't wrap his head around the strangeness of the situation. The empty locker room away from his adoring fans, the way Yakov's eyes flickered nervously from side to side, the foreboding tone in his voice.

"You won gold tonight, here in Russia," Yakov started. Victor nodded.

"Yes. Yes I did."

"But you won by the narrowest margin you have ever won by."

"The competition was tough," Victor explained with a laugh. "The other skaters have improved, they are giving me a run for my money, but still, I brought home the gold."

"The competition was no stronger than usual Victor. You blew those other skaters out of the water. You skated a perfect program. You should have received record breaking scores. You should have beat the others by more than a point. But you didn't, because Russia is trying to send you a message," Yakov stated. Victor's silver eyebrows shot up.

"Send me a message? Yakov, what do you mean?" He questioned, worry palpable in his voice. Yakov looked around once more.

"The Russians would be crazy to not give you gold. It would cause a major upset that would be hard to cover in the skating world. But they did not give you what you deserved either because you embody a lifestyle they do not condone."

Victor stared at him, not quite understanding what his coach was trying to say. He ran his fingers through a lock of waist-length silver hair nervously. He could sense the severity of the situation, but couldn't pinpoint why.

"I embody a lifestyle they don't condone? What lifestyle? Figure skating? Yakov the Russians love figure skating, you're being ridiculous," he replied, still stroking his hair.

"Homosexuality Victor. You embody the stereotypical traits of a homosexual, and Russia will not stand for that, and they want you to know."

Victor felt the bottom drop out of the room and an icy chill that had nothing to do with the frigid locker room rippled over his arms.

"I… t-they know I am gay and they are punishing me for it?" Victor whispered, his stomach aching.

"They know nothing Victor. There is no public information about your sexuality, but they may suspect. The feminine costumes, the fanciful routines, you have done nothing to assert your masculinity, and now that you are 18, an adult, they feel it is no longer acceptable for you to ride the line."

Victor rubbed his eyes, soaking this information in. He kept his gaze down.

"You are saying that the Russians suspect that I am gay because of my outfits and routines, and in order to please them, I need to be more masculine?" he asked, processing. Yakov nodded.

"Yes Victor. And if you do not change, they will find a way to keep you from skating. Your career will be over."

Victor looked up and much to his surprise, as well as Yakov's, he let out a laugh.

"Yakov, do you hear yourself? You're saying that the Russians will end my career if I keep dressing and acting feminine? That's nonsense. I am the top figure skater in the world Yakov. The people love the way I look, the way I skate. The Russians can't control that."

Yakov shook his head mournfully.

"You know nothing boy. The Russians are capable of many things."

"Like what Yakov?"

"They kill people for being gay Victor. It is not tolerated. They have killed others, and they will kill you too."

Victor felt complete and utter fear strike his chest. He exhaled heavily, staring at Yakov in disbelief. Surely he was exaggerating, lying to make a point. But when he searched Yakov's eyes, he found nothing but truth and worry. Tears pricked behind his eyes at the thought of being killed for simply being himself. This wasn't a matter of changing himself for personal preference, or the opinion of others. It was a matter of life and death, and it was far from fair. Suddenly he felt the need to do everything he could to protect himself.

"I'll wear more masculine costumes!" Victor blurted out desperately.

"Okay," Yakov responded.

"And I'll come up with more masculine routines for next season!"

"Okay."

"And I'll take more pictures with girls and put them online!"

"Victor…"

"And I'll stay far away from boys, and other male skaters, and stop acting so feminine..."

"Victor…"

"And I'll wear pants all the time, and drip with testosterone, and I'll stop wearing flower crowns and a-and and…"

"Victor!"

"Hmm?"

"Your hair Victor…"

"What?"

"Your hair."

"Oh! Oh…"

Victor looked at the lock of silver hair still intertwined in his fingers. 'Right,' he thought to himself. 'My hair.' It was the most feminine thing about him. Billowing down his his back, it landed right above his waist, silvery, and shiny, and beautiful. It was the biggest threat to his masculinity, and, if he was going to convince all of Russia that he wasn't attracted to boys, it would have to be the first thing to go. Even if the thought of it made his heart ache.

"I made you an appointment to get it cut tomorrow at a salon in St. Petersburg," Yakov stated in the growing silence.

"T-Tomorrow?" Victor stuttered. Yakov nodded.

"How short?" Victor questioned.

"Short," Yakov answered. "Very short."

Later that night at the banquet, Victor looked around at all the happy people who supposedly loved him, but when he looked at the Russians, he could see something similar to contempt hiding beneath their pleasant smiles. He drank until it didn't hurt anymore.

The next day, Victor sat in a stylist's chair, a large black cape secured around his neck. He watched in the mirror the way his silver strands splayed over his shoulders, the silver moonlight providing quite the contrast to the black nylon. Behind him, a stylist dragged a comb through his already tangle free locks. Mercifully, Yakov seemed to have found a stylist who had absolutely no idea who he was. Things would be easier that way. Victor tried to ignore the aching in his stomach, the feeling that he needed to throw up.

"Alright hon, what do you want to do here today?" The stylist asked.

Victor let out a small sigh. It wasn't what he wanted to do today, it was what society wanted him to do. He inhaled sharply, preparing himself for what was about to come out of his mouth.

"I want to cut it all off," he answered in his best attempt to sound confident. He watched the stylist's eyes widen behind him.

"Are you sure hon? That's a big change…"

He wasn't sure, he was far from sure. Sitting in a chair and letting some random woman hack away at his favorite feature was the exact opposite of what he wanted to be doing. Yet, he still managed to nod.

"I'm sure."

"What style do you want?" she questioned.

He looked up. He hadn't gotten as far as deciding on a style. He hadn't found it necessary. Yakov said it needed to be short, so he knew it was going to be short. That was all. He tried to put on his most charming smile.

"Surprise me," he answered, false grin on his face. "But make it short."

The stylist shrugged and picked up a pair of scissors. Victor squeezed the armrests of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white. He watched her select a long section of hair in the mirror and hold it between her fingers. She opened her torturous scissors and before Victor could properly react, she let the blades bite in. A single ribbon of silver drifted to the floor, limp and lifeless.

Victor felt something inside him shatter. It was done. There was no going back. The stylist moved around him, severing lock after lock at chin level. Victor kept his eyes shut, refusing to take in the massacre going on around him. He could feel his head growing lighter and lighter with every cursed snip of the blades.

He had never had short hair before. As a child, his hair was kept long due to it's unique and unusual color, and as he grew older, the thought of cutting it short never entered his mind. He loved his hair. He loved the way it felt, soft and silky beneath his fingers. He loved the way it billowed behind him majestically on the ice, and wrapped around him like a safe cocoon when he went into turns. He loved the way it looked, how it made him so easily distinguishable from the other skaters. But most of all, he loved the way it made him feel safe. It was his security blanket, and now, he was forced to give it up. And it hurt like hell.

It wasn't just the hair either. It was everything. It was the fact that he had to chop the hair off, change the costumes, create new routines just so he could hide his true self. The Russians had made it so in order to survive the sport he loved, the sport he had sacrificed everything for, he would have to change every aspect of his identity. He felt vulnerable and oppressed simply because his sexual orientation wasn't what the Russians considered normal. They were taking everything away from him including his right to love who he wanted.

Suddenly the quiet salon was filled with a loud buzzing. Victor jumped as a pair of clippers whirred by his ear. The stylist put a hand on his shoulder. "Head down please," she directed, guiding his chin to his chest. Victor tried to ignore the way his eyes burned with tears as a dusting of silver splinters covered his shoulders. He hadn't realized it was going to be this short. She moved the clippers around both of his ears before shutting them off and attacking the top layer of hair with a pair of scissors.

Finally, she ruffled his hair and pulled the cape from around his neck, dumping a massive of pile of silver clippings on top of the long strands already blanketing the floor. Victor could feel the absence of weight on his head, the way the air conditioning in the shop blew over his newly exposed neck. He stared at the hair on the floor and felt something cry out inside him. It was gone.

"Alright, all done hon, why don't you take a look? I hope you're surprised."

Warily, he raised his melancholy blue eyes to the mirror. What he saw made his stomach drop to the floor. It was short. Really short. It clung to his head on the back and sides, with long bangs that covered most of his eye. While the haircut was done well, and it didn't look awful, he already knew that he _hated_ it. It was the exact opposite of him, and it broke his heart. He swallowed hard and stood up, brushing stray hairs that looked like spider's web from his black jacket. He thanked the stylist who was waiting expectantly, pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, and disappeared outside before anyone could spot him.

Back at his flat, Victor carefully removed his hood and sat in front of his mirror. He moved his fingers over the short hair at his nape, shivering at the shortened strands. He tugged on his bangs, wishing they were longer. It was too short, much too short. He finally let the tears he'd been holding back stain his cheeks. Figure skating had taken many things from him over the years, but he'd always been allowed to be himself. Now, they had taken that too.

Eventually he dried his tears, pulled his hood up, and mustered the courage to walk over to the skating rink to show Yakov.

When Victor walked through the door and removed his hood, Yakov was struck by how remarkably unrecognizable his skater had become. He had followed his directions. The long, flowing hair was gone, replaced by a short crop that made his eyes burn. His carefree smile was replaced by a worried, vulnerable scowl he'd never seen before. He cleared his throat and put a hand on Victor's shoulder.

"It looks good Victor. You've done good."

Victor shrugged, looking down. He didn't want to talk about it.

"Let's get to work," he stated, heading determined toward the ice.

Throughout the off-season, Victor kept all his promises. He exchanged all his tiny, feminine costumes for more hardened, masculine ones. He spent all his free time in the rink, creating routines that dripped masculinity and testosterone. Somehow, throughout all of this, he had managed to keep his hair hidden from the public. He tried not to get excited at the way it seemed to be growing fast, and secretly prayed Yakov wouldn't notice the way it was creeping down his neck towards his shoulders. A few days before the first competition of the season, Yakov pulled him aside.

"We should get your hair trimmed soon, no? It's getting long again. We'll get it cleaned up before your debut as a macho man, yeah?" He teased, attempting to be playful.

Victor nodded, doing his best to ignore the way tears were welling behind his eyes.

When the time finally came to show the world, Victor stepped confidently onto the ice, the hood he had requested on his costume pulled up and covering his hair. He stood in position at the center of the ice, his award-winning smile plastered on his face. The music started and he pulled his hood off dramatically and began to skate. He smiled at the collective gasp of the audience as they saw his new look. They had asked him what he would do to surprise the audience this year, and here was his answer.

"And in a surprising turn of events, it appears that last year's champion Victor Nikiforov of Russia has cut his trademark hair short. Perhaps we are looking at a completely new contender," the announcer exclaimed excitedly. Victor kept his head high, his smile in place, and skated with more determination than he had ever had before. If Russia was going to take everything away from him, he wasn't going to let them see him suffer.

Unsurprisingly, he took the gold that night, breaking records with his high scores and gaining more fans than he had before. He tried to pretend like he didn't feel like he was lying to everyone.

Meanwhile in Japan, a 14 year old Yuri sat in front of his family's television, tears streaming down his cheeks. He sniffled as his mother rubbed his back.

"Shh Yuri, it's just hair," she stated in attempt to soothe him. Yuri hiccuped, embarrassed at how emotional he had gotten.

"I-I know, but it's his hair! His hair is suppose to be long! He doesn't look right now! Look at him, he looks so sad and vulnerable without his hair… it's not right… he shouldn't have cut it…" Yuri protested emphatically. His mother sighed.

"If he doesn't like it he can grow it back out. Hair grows Yuri. It was Victor's choice to cut it. That doesn't mean he's a different skater. I think he still looks nice, and he's still going to take the gold."

Yuri nodded and wiped his tears with the back of his hand. "H-He does still look nice…" he conceded. He managed to quiet his tears and watch the rest of the program without protest, but later that night when everyone had fallen asleep, Yuri had cried over the loss of his idol's famous feminine appearance.

Little did he know, back in Victor's hotel him, Victor was doing exactly the same thing.


End file.
